


The space between my memories

by HereToWrite



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I once again utilize this supposed shared bathroom between Scotty and McCoy, Panic Attack, Wolf in the Fold, and Scotty deserves to be comforted, dealing with the fallout of that episode because things went down, framed for a crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereToWrite/pseuds/HereToWrite
Summary: “He possesses bodies,” and Scotty’s voice is so soft that it makes McCoy’s sharp intake of air seem thunderous. “Maybe we can explain away Kara, but Lieutenant Tracy? We were alone in that room together, the doors were locked. There wasn’t anyway in, except that he might’ve—he could’ve—“ Scotty’s stomach rolls and he can feel the blood on his fingers, the cold metal of the knife against his skin. The horrible realization that he doesn’t remember what he’s done.Or Scotty has a terrible realization following his trial in Wolf in the Fold
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	The space between my memories

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted a story that dealt with the fallout of this episode, because Scotty looks so scared during it, but I couldn’t find one so I decided to write my own. I hope you enjoy it!

Scotty misses seeing Mr. Hengist scattered into millions of pieces, but the relief he feels over the news is pliable. It bubbles over and mixes with the drugs in his system and a sound bursts out of him. It’s a little too high and a little too hysterical to be called laughter, but he can’t be bothered by it right now. Right now he just lets himself feel relieved as all his insecurities begin to disappear behind words like free and acquitted and  _ innocent.  _ He even manages to stumble to his quarters and pull out an old hidden bottle of scotch, before McCoy practically materializes and snatches it away from him. Cheerfully explaining that the combination of drugs and alcohol will most certainly kill him, but not even his stolen booze is enough to bring down his spirits.

He’s on cloud nine, over the moon and then some, as he sits down at his desk and grins out at nothing. Free. Acquitted.  _ Innocent.  _ He doesn’t think he can remember a time he’s ever been quite this happy. Then six hours tick by. Then Doctor McCoy’s tranquilizer wears off. Then comes the reminder of death that leaves Scotty feeling nothing, but cold and numb and unmade. 

Three women are dead. The thought plows through his once happy mind and the distress comes rushing back just as quickly. 

He remembers it like a dream, the feel of a knife in his hand, red blood shining against clean floors, the death and the terror of not remembering if he’d done it or not. But his memory fuzzes in and out like an old holovid and he’s left with only the distant realization that only his fingerprints had been on the murder weapon. 

He hadn’t really given that much thought before. First, he’d been too preoccupied with trying not to take a fall for a crime he (probably) hadn’t committed and after that he’d been drugged up to his gills and hadn’t cared, but now? Now his head is clear and terrible puzzle pieces are falling into place.

Mr. Hengist, Redjac, that  _ thing _ , had taken control of Jaris, of Mr. Hengist—or whoever he might’ve once been—and even the Enterprise herself, who was he to say it hadn’t done the same to him? Who was he to say it hadn’t wrapped itself around his soul and done all its dirty work with his very own hands? 

He looks down at his hands, shaking and clenched. They don’t look any different. He presses them against his eyes. They don’t feel different. He tries to breathe.

“I didnae kill anyone,” he scowls into the empty room. 

Except...except for the fact that there’s this terrible gap in his memory. A horrible blankness where he can’t say for sure what he had or hadn’t done. What he did or didn’t do. 

He pulls his still shaking hands away from his face and stares at them. How does he know that his hands hadn’t murdered three innocent people? 

No, he amends, he hadn’t killed Sybo. He knows this. He  _ remembers _ this. He latches onto the thought in desperation. He hadn’t killed her, he hadn’t killed her, he hadn’t—but the others? The question pushes past his comforting phrase. He can’t account for the others. He can’t remember the others. His breath hitches, his stomach rolls, his hands shake.

How does he know for sure it wasn’t him?

He doesn’t, because he can’t remember and he can’t think and all at once can’t  _ breathe.  _

The air should be there, logically he knows this, because he knows his ship. Knows that her life support system was up and running just moments ago, but he _still_ _can’t breathe._ He gasps in a breath, his mind racing.

Where was the air? There should be enough air. 

Unless, he thinks wildly, unless Hengist had done something? The alien had been evicted from the system, but there had been plenty of time to lay a trap. To ensure that a whole ship full of people would follow it to its death. 

Maybe...maybe Hengist had never left at all and was just waiting to regather himself and attack. Maybe he was just waiting for Scotty to let his guard down again. 

The thought settles over him like ice and Scotty feels unclean all over again. He should’ve checked right away, should’ve ensured that everyone was  _ safe.  _

He needs to get help. He needs to let someone know that they’re in trouble. He needs to let someone know that  _ there’s no air.  _

He gasps, stumbling towards the shared bathroom, passes through the door, and almost cries when he collides with a very grumpy Leonard McCoy. 

The doctor stumbles back with a curse, a plastic bottle of some sort falling from his grasp. He looks up angrily only for it to melt away into concern as he makes eye contact with the engineer. 

“Scotty? What is it? What’s wrong?” And Scotty’s being led to sit down on the edge of the toilet.

“I think I’m dying,” Scotty rasps. “I cannae breathe, there isn’t enough  _ air. _ ” 

He tries to get the doctor to understand. To let him know that he needs to check the life support system, the circulation, the engines, because Hengist did  _ something  _ while Scotty was helpless to stop him. 

McCoy’s hands are moving now, checking pulses and grabbing his hands, before he forces himself into Scotty’s line of vision. Scotty barely notices, because he can’t  _ breathe.  _

“Scotty,” the doctor says calmly. How can he be calm at a time like this? “There’s enough air, I just need you to breathe with me okay.”

Scotty laughs, it’s ugly and hoarse and he looks away. A hand grabs his chin and carefully, gently pulls it forward.

“No, Scotty, just look at me, alright?” McCoy’s holding Scotty’s hands again, keeping them firmly trapped and steady. “We’re gonna breathe together. In—“ McCoy takes a deep breath and holds it “—and then out.” He releases it equally slowly. “Just like that okay? Now it’s your turn.” 

Scotty tries to follow the instructions, he really does, but the breath comes in too harsh and he gags on the ragged gasp it turns into.

“Easy,” McCoy tells him. “It’s okay one more time.”

McCoy breathes. Scotty gasps.

“One more time,” McCoy repeats and takes a breath with him. They do this one more time and one more time and one more time, until they’re breathing together. 

“There you go,” McCoy says softly. “In and out, nice and easy like.” 

For a moment they just sit there and breathe, until Scotty pulls his shaking hands away and runs them down his face. 

“Sorry,” he mutters behind them. He can feel his face heating up. He’s an adult, the Chief Engineer of the Enterprise, he shouldn’t need to be reminded how to breathe. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” McCoy tells him. “You’ve had a bit of a lousy day, but it’s over now.”

Scotty laughs again, because over? It isn’t over. Spock himself had said that that  _ thing  _ was still out there, floating in space. Sure, the captain thought it would die eventually, but what if it didn’t? What if it came back? What if it wanted a repeat performance? 

Blood on his fingers. Metal against his skin. Blankness in his mind.

Scotty gasps. 

“No, Scotty, breathe,” McCoy’s commands. “In and out, okay.” 

Scotty breathes. 

“It’s over Scotty,” McCoy repeats. 

“Three women are dead,” Scotty tries to get the doctor to understand. To get him to piece together exactly what that means.

“It wasn’t your fault,” and there’s something deadly in the doctor’s eyes. Something harsh and angry and Scotty wonders what put it there. “You didn’t kill those women, Scotty. Mr. Hengist, or rather, whatever was inside him, did.”

“But we don’t know how he did it.”

McCoy blinks, looks at Scotty, “What do you mean? We saw how he—“

“No!” Scotty lashes out, an anger pushing past his fear. “I mean  _ how he did it. _ ”

McCoy leans back, holds up a hand in surrender, waits for Scotty to stop panting. 

“Scotty, I don’t understand. What do you mean?” 

The anger dissipates, leaving him feeling empty. 

“He possesses bodies, Leonard,” and Scotty’s voice is so soft that it makes McCoy’s sharp intake of air seem thunderous. “Maybe we can explain away Kara, but Lieutenant Tracy? We were alone in that room together, the doors were locked. There wasn’t anyway in, except that he might’ve—he could’ve—“ Scotty’s stomach rolls and he can feel the blood on his fingers, the cold metal of the knife against his skin. The horrible realization that he  _ doesn’t remember what he’s done _ . 

He jolts upright, stumbles, and throws up unceremoniously into the sink. 

He gags and presses against the counter like maybe the sharp edge could carve out the helplessness that’s settled inside him, but before he can find out McCoy’s hands are on him again. Steady and soft and carefully guiding him down to the ground. 

Scotty curls his knees against his chest, and tries to breath around the sour taste in his mouth. 

“I cannae remember what happened Leonard,” he confesses for the hundredth time. “There’s a blank and I dinnae know what he might’ve done during it. He could’ve—I might’ve—“ Scotty can’t bring himself to say it.

There’s a terrible moment of silence where he’s sure McCoy is going to condemn him.

“I’m gonna kill him,” McCoy growls out instead, startling him. “He’s already scattered into space dust, but I’m gonna get Jim to gather him all back up again just so I can shoot him back out myself.”

Despite himself Scotty snorts, “You couldn’t kill him. Goes against yer nature.”

“Jim would do it again on my behalf, maybe even Spock if I phrased it as a logical course of action.” 

Scotty snorts again.

McCoy gives him a small smile, before growing serious, “Scotty. This isn’t your fault. You didn’t kill anyone.” 

“Three women are dead,” Scotty whispers.

“And you didn’t kill a single one of them. That  _ thing  _ whatever it was, killed each and every one. Then, because he could, he tried to let you take the fall for it. He left you confused and scared and unable to defend yourself and none of that is your fault. In this situation, you’re a victim too.”

“But—“

“No, Scotty, no but’s. What happened wasn’t your fault. You didn’t kill anyone and no one here thinks you did.”

“I...I think the captain thought I killed ‘em,” Scotty admits. “Maybe not later, but at first…” he trails off, shivering. 

He remembers being passed around like an object. Interrogated by Mr. Hengist, by Lieutenant Tracy, by Captain James Tiberious Kirk himself. He remembers the fear as Jaris had uttered the words, ‘death by slow torture.’ He gags.

McCoy’s hand finds his knee, gripping it reassuringly. “I’ll talk to Jim,” he promises. “But let’s not worry about what he may or may not have thought right now, okay?” 

Scotty doesn’t answer.

“Scotty?”

“Okay,” he agrees, bringing his head down to rest on his knees in exhaustion. He’s so tired, but maybe if he just closed his eyes for a few—Kara’s terrified face races up to meet him. Then Lieutenant Tracy’s and Sybo’s and Scotty yanks his head back up, gasping for air as his eyes fly open. 

McCoy is still there, hand on his knee and blue eyes staring knowingly at him, Scotty looks away with a scowl. 

He’s a grown man, the Chief Engineer of Starfleet’s flagship, he shouldn’t be falling apart in the bathroom like a child. He should be going over the  _ Enterprise _ ’s schematics and his notes like he had been doing before all this. Or he should be checking the systems to make sure no permanent damage was done from Heingst’s brief stint in the system. 

His heart skips at the memory and he feels anger bubble up inside him. How can he keep a whole ship running smoothly when he can’t even keep himself from falling apart? 

He’s being ridiculous, no one else is falling apart, he’s just overreacting. There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore, it’s over, Hengist is gone and yet...he looks down at his hands and watches as they shake. Pathetic. He’d been fine before, when he had the doctor’s drugs in his system. Sure, he may have been just a wee bit out of his mind, but at least he’d been happy. If he could just get that feeling back he was sure that he could—his eyes widened at the thought.

“Doc, that drug cocktail ye mixed up?” He asked excitedly. “Have ye still got that?” 

McCoy looks hesitant, “Why?”

“I felt fine before,” Scotty rushes to explain, something like hope blossoming in his chest. “You know, when that cocktail of yours was in my system, maybe I could just—“

“No.” McCoy’s answer is harsh in its finality and cuts through him like a betrayal.

“Why not?” 

“Scotty, I—I can’t just give you more of that stuff,” McCoy splutters. You’d never be able to operate as Chief Engineer.”

“So?” Scotty whines, because he may lose the ship, but at least he’ll be able to forget about the blood on his hands, on the knife, on his boots. At least he’ll be able to stop feeling like he no longer owns his body. 

“You don’t mean that,” McCoy snaps, hands coming up to grip the engineers shoulders. “Scotty, you're in shock and you’re dealing with trauma. You need a therapist, not a tranquilizer.” 

“You don’t know what I need,” Scotty hisses, fear and doubts and horror giving way to anger. “You don’t know what it’s like. I can feel it Leonard. Their blood on my hands, on my arms, and I  _ can’t remember how it got there.” _

McCoy doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t move his hands from where they’re tightening against Scotty’s shoulders. Scotty wants to throw them off. Wants to squirm away and yell until McCoy hurts like he does, but they’re grounding. They’re real and rough against the ghosts of the day and he just can’t quite bring himself to give that up. 

“You’re right,” McCoy’s voice is even, blue eyes serious. “I don’t know what it’s like, I don’t know what you’re going through, but Scotty, throwing away everything you love isn’t the way to go about recovering. Do you really think you’d be happy if we left you on some planet, hopped up on drugs, and destined to never see the  _ Enterprise  _ again, much less jury rig it back together?”

“Maybe?”

McCoy looks at him, unamused. 

“No,” he relents, laying his head back down against his knees. Carefully making sure not to close his eyes. 

The hands on his shoulders relax, then fall away, “No,” McCoy agrees gruffly. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Is there anything else you can do?” Scotty asks.

A brief hesitation and then, “If you’d like I can run some scans. Mind control, possession, whichever, tends to leave a mark on the body, at least for a couple days. I know what to look for.” 

Scotty thinks there might be a story there, but doesn’t feel like asking about it.

“And if there’s something there?” He questions from his knees.

A rustle of fabric like McCoy’s shrugged, “There isn’t a lot we can do at this point, other than try and put your mind at ease.” He sounds apologetic, “But, Scotty, even if we do find something that doesn’t change your role in all of this. You were a victim, and none of this was your fault.” 

Scotty wishes that McCoy would stop saying that, because he’s starting to believe him. 

He takes a shaky breath and looks up. McCoy is staring at him, eyes sharp and frustrated, but sure. He opens his mouth to remind the doctor that three women are dead, but instead asks, “Are you sure it’s not my fault?”

“Positive.” 

Scotty laughs, high and wild, “It’s not my fault.” He repeats. “Three women are dead, but it’s not my fault.” 

McCoy sighs, tension easing from his shoulders, “That’s right, Scotty. It ain’t your fault.”

Scotty is laughing until suddenly he’s crying, tears of relief slipping down his cheeks and onto the floor. McCoy, bless his heart, looks vaguely uncomfortable by the new development, but still manages to pat Scotty’s knee reassuringly as he sobs. 

“You’re gonna be okay Scotty,” he soothes. “We’ll figure this out.”

Scotty nods and rubs his hands across his face. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “Sorry. I’m a right mess.” He presses his palms against his eyes, trying to stop the tears flowing out of them. 

“There’s no need to apologize.”

“I’m a grown man Leonard,” Scotty snaps. “I should be able to handle my own problems. Not go fallin’ apart in front of a chief officer.” 

McCoy gives him a long look like he’s trying to decide how to respond, before telling him, “Scotty, you’re at least the 20th person I’ve treated tonight for emotional duress.” 

Scotty blinks, “What?”

McCoy sits back against the wall across from him, scrubs a hand down his face. “I took over 400 people, myself included, and drugged them up to their gills, even in a completely controlled environment that scenario would be fixing to start trouble. But on the _Enterprise_ everyone’s got something going on. So, when those 400 odd people started to crash some of them crashed just a tad harder than others. They couldn’t adjust to the sudden chemical upset in their system. Luckily I dosed some of the medical team first, but poor Christine, I have no idea how many souls she soothed before I managed to pull myself together.” 

He looks Scotty in the eyes, “The point is that you’re not the first crew member I’ve seen break down tonight. I’ll admit, having you come barreling into me in the bathroom was unexpected, but the panic attack? Not so much. Especially considering the ordeal you’ve been through.” 

“Oh,” Scotty frowns. “So what you’re sayin’ is that the drugs made me panic?” 

“No,” McCoy clarifies, “I don’t think they helped matters, but I wouldn’t blame them completely. I think that today’s events would have affected you either way, but it might’ve been less…” he pauses searching for the proper word, “...dramatic if you’d been able to handle those emotions as they came rather than all at once when your six hours of happy time were up.”

“But it isn’t my fault, the reason I’m feeling this way.” 

“No, it’s just your body reacting to a traumatic event. It’s unfortunate, but it’s normal. In fact, I’d be more worried if you weren’t feeling anything at all.” 

“And I’m going to be okay?”

“Scotty, with time you’ll be fine, I guarantee it.” 

Scotty lets his head fall back against the sink drawers, slowly slotting this new information into his mind. 

Three women were dead. His hands were still shaking. There had been blood on his hands and boots. A knife in his hand. He had fallen apart in front of the ship’s Chief Medical Officer in their bathroom. And none of this was his fault. It wasn’t his fault and somehow he was going to be okay. 

He takes a breath, “Thanks Doc.” 

McCoy smiles, “You need anything else, before we wrap things up?” 

“I could use a drink.”

“How about a sleeping pill and some rest instead,” it isn’t a suggestion.

Scotty scowls, “Some friend you are, first ya go stealin’ my scotch and then ya refuse to give it back.” 

First off, I did not  _ steal  _ your scotch, I confiscated it. Second, if I hadn’t you might’ve very well poisoned yourself.”

“I woulda been fine.”

McCoy snorts, “You woulda been dead.” 

“Fine, but I want it back.” 

The doctor stands, brushes his hand off and offers it to Scotty, “Sure Scotty tomorrow. I left it in the medical bay alongside everything else I confiscated from the drugged members of this ship.” 

“Fine,” he takes the hand and McCoy hauls him to his feet, “but I want it first thing in the morning.” 

McCoy nods, “Whatever you say.” then reaching down he picks up the small bottle he’d dropped earlier. 

“What are those?” 

“The sleeping pills,” McCoy scowls at the bottle like it’s personally offended him. “Christine told me to take them. This whole darn day won’t let me relax and she got tired of hearing me complain about it.”

He thrusts the bottle at Scotty, “Like I said, you should take one. You look like you could use a good nights sleep.” 

Scotty catches the bottle then eyes McCoy, “you’re not gonna take one?” 

“Nah haven’t been a fan of them since—well let’s just say they leave a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ll fall asleep just fine on my own.” 

Scotty frowns, not believing a word of it. 

“I’ll take one if you do.” 

“What? Scotty, this isn’t a bargain I’m telling you to take them as a medical professional.” 

“They tend to leave a bitter taste in my mouth,” Scotty deadpans. “I think it’s only fair we suffer together.” 

McCoy shoots him a glare that would send ensigns running but Scotty has known McCoy far too long to be intimidated. He’s like those candies the captain likes, hard outer shell but soft on the inside. 

Eventually he relents like Scotty knew he would, “Fine. Grab a pill and then toss it here.” 

Scotty does so and then, using water from the sink, swallows the pill. Watching as McCoy does likewise.

“There you happy?” McCoy snarls. 

“Yes.” 

“Great,” McCoy closes the medicine cabinet a bit too harshly. “Now go to bed.”

He turns to go, but Scotty catches him by the arm. 

McCoy arches an eyebrow but his words are soft, “You need something else?”

“No, I just wanted to say thanks.” 

McCoy pats his shoulder awkwardly, “Anytime Scotty. What are friends for.” 

Then with a grumble and a swipe at his already drooping eyes the doctor vanished into his room. 

Scotty watches the closed door for a moment, before turning and exiting. He tidies up the mess he made in his panic and ignores the small twist of his stomach that being alone brings.

Once done Scotty lays down, eyes staring at the ceiling. The pain of the ordeal isn’t gone, he decides, but it’s muted and he thinks eventually it’ll be but a distant memory. Maybe, someday, it’ll even be one of those stories he’ll tell old friends. But for now he thinks his condolences to those who were lost, turns over, closes his eyes, and dreams of nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, this shared bathroom may be foggy canon at best but it is a great plot device for getting these two to interact
> 
> Anywho! I hope you enjoyed the story! I rewatched the episode recently to make sure my initial thoughts were the same and while I think you could say that Scotty was just framed rather than being possessed the knife in his hands and gap in his memory seem just a little too convenient to not address. Especially, because he says that he knows he didn’t kill Sybo—the only crime where Hengist was also for sure in the room—so I don’t know food for thought. I suppose it works either way, but possession definitely gives way to the most angst and hurt/comfort potential. 
> 
> But thank you for reading my story and I hope you’ll leave kudos and/or a comment below! Even if it’s short (like a smiley face) it’s appreciated either way! 
> 
> Also shout out to my blink and you miss it references to Mirror Mirror and The Man Trap and the Next Generation episode Relics


End file.
